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  “Right.”

  “It would be pretty hard for one person to throw a body in there by themselves. They’d have to lean her up against it, lift her up, then flip her over. Unless they’re a Sumo wrestler, they’d need help. Another person. A ladder. A stack of boxes, at least. “

  Brewster swung his legs off the desk. “There wasn’t anything there. No boxes. Or ladder.”

  “Exactly. Which means it could well have been a two-man job… or two-person job.”

  “That could explain how they got away. They took two cars to the high school—hers and theirs. Once they pitched her into the dumpster, they split in their car. Nice and neat.”

  “And two people could overpower a defenseless woman easily.”

  “Could be.” Brewster kicked his feet against the desk. “But I don’t get something. Why not hit her with a twenty-two or a thirty-eight and get it over with? Why screw around with poison, if that’s what this was? It takes much longer. And you have to know what you’re doing.”

  Matt stared at the picture of Julie. Brewster was right. There was a certainty, certain simplicity with a gun or knife. A slug piercing flesh and bone, a knife slashing through someone’s gut is ugly. Painful. But tangible. You knew what you were dealing with. But this death was cold, invisible, remote. It had none of the clarity of a bullet or blade. Which made it more insidious. “We probably ought to run this through VICAP, you know.”

  Cops generally took a dim view of the FBI’s profiling system, since most profiles ended up describing the same guy: a white, dysfunctional, male loner in his thirties. Matt remembered Stone saying, “This must be one busy dude.” But they needed help. “Send out a LEADS too.” LEADs, the Law Enforcement Agencies Data System, was the statewide computer system police used to share crime-related information. Matt gathered up the files. “I’ve got to report to Doyle.”

  “Have fun.” Brewster pulled his body off the desk. “I’ll go put out those calls.”

  As he went down the hall to Doyle’s office, Matt realized he’d forgotten to buy apples for Georgia.

  Chapter Nine

  Krieger and Associates occupied an office in a new building on Frontage Road with fountains in the front and expensive landscaping in the back. But when Stone pushed past the door, he saw a couple of straight-backed chairs, a chipped coffee table, and a mangy ficus that should have been put out of its misery. Business must be slow.

  An elderly receptionist, her head bent over a magazine, sat behind a frosted glass panel. Stone tapped on the partition. The woman looked up, as if a visitor was the last thing she’d expected.

  “Is Mr. Krieger here?”

  The woman fingered her blue-white hair, as if that might help her think more clearly. “I’m sorry. Mr. Krieger is in conference.”

  “I’ll wait.” Stone flashed his shield against the glass. The receptionist slid the glass open, looked at it, then picked up the phone. As she murmured into the phone, she continued to play with her hair.

  Stone had barely settled into a chair when the inner door opened. Gerald Krieger was in the same glen plaid suit he’d worn at the hearings, but had a red tie this time. And no green ribbon. Without the attention focused on him, he wasn’t as tall as Stone remembered either.

  His eyes swept over Stone. “If someone said I was their attorney, they’re lying. I don’t do criminal work.”

  “Thanks for cutting short your conference, Mr. Krieger. This shouldn’t take long.”

  “I told you. I only do civil law.”

  “I understand. Can we talk in your office?”

  Krieger wheeled around and led Stone into a small office. A Formica desk and executive chair took up the center of the room. Two chairs were in front of the desk, and a computer sat behind it, its screen-saver a rip-off of a recent sci-fi movie. On the wall, next to a framed law degree from Northwestern, was a poster sketch of Bob Dylan’s profile, his hair in psychedelically colored bands. His desk was remarkably clean for a lawyer. Business must be very slow.

  Stone sat in one of the chairs. “I was at the hearings last night. You feel pretty strongly about the development.”

  “The Feldman thing?” Krieger said casually. “Not really.”

  “Is that so? You were pretty vocal. Stirred up a lot of people.”

  “Did I?” Krieger smiled.

  “What about this group CEASE? You were wearing their green ribbon.”

  “I filed some legal papers for them. But that’s it. I’m not involved.”

  Stone scratched his head. “Could have fooled me. I got the impression you were riled up.”

  Krieger turned cold eyes on Stone. “Why are you here, Detective?”

  Stone leaned forward. “I’m looking into some vandalism at the Feldman site.”

  “The dog shit.” Krieger laughed. “I heard about that.”

  Stone kept his mouth shut.

  “Hey. You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”

  Stone waited.

  “I wish I had. It was perfect.”

  “You know it’s a misdemeanor to deface property,” Stone said.

  “Detective. I’m an attorney. Words are my weapons. I was using words to stick it to them. The Feldmans.”

  “Why? You have history with them?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Enough posturing. “How ‘bout you let me in on it?”

  Krieger toyed with the knot on his tie. “Years ago my family used to own land on Skokie Boulevard. Not far from Old Orchard. We knew they’d be expanding Old Orchard at some point so we sat on it, figuring we’d wait for the best offer. It was prime property, you know. Well, about twenty years ago—I was at school in Madison—here comes Stuart Feldman with all his downtown connections and an offer for the land. My father laughed at the price. Actually, so did Feldman. Then they started to negotiate.”

  Stone nodded.

  “But then a strange thing happened.” Krieger’s face darkened. “Right in the middle of negotiations, the village says the land can’t be built on. Maps for the flood plain were redrawn, they claimed, and my father’s property was suddenly zoned unbuildable.”

  Stone raised an eyebrow.

  “That right, Detective. Cut the value right out of the thing. My father would be lucky to dump it for twenty-five cents on the dollar. And who do you think was waiting with shiny new quarters in his pockets?” Krieger grimaced. “The bastard picked it up for a song, then appealed the floodway designation. He won, of course, and put up an office building.”

  Stone ran his hand along the fake grain veneer on Krieger’s desk. “Your family must have been very upset.”

  “How would you feel if you realized you were nothing more than road-kill?” Krieger said. “Actually, they’re fine now. They moved to Florida.”

  “What about you?”

  Krieger smiled. “It’s true I showed up at the hearings to vent. But I had nothing to do with the dog shit.”

  Stone gazed at the Dylan poster. It struck him that dog shit was probably Krieger’s style. He was probably one of those guys at sit-ins who disappeared when the cops moved in. On the other hand, vandalism wasn’t a felony. It was about as criminal as smoking a joint. “Feldman’s daughter is running the show now,” he said. “Aren’t you picking on the wrong person?”

  “She’s just his lap dog. Daddy’s still pulling the strings.”

  “You own a dog, Krieger?”

  He grinned. “I’m allergic to ‘em. Cats too.”

  Stone passed the puny ficus on his way out. There was something fundamentally wrong with people who didn’t respect life, he thought. It cost nothing to water a plant.

  ***

  When he got back to the station, Stone called Ann Heller and Barbara Michaelson, both members of CEASE and vocal participants at the hearings. While he got an earful on why Northview didn’t need more development, he didn’t get anything new on the vandalism. He wrote up a report for the chief before going home. It was time to m
ove on.

  Chapter Ten

  Except for the Chevy that once sprouted out of the wall, Lincoln Avenue hadn’t changed much. Before the Academy, Georgia went to DePaul and lived on Seminary. Now, inching her way through rush hour traffic, she passed the same restaurants and stores, though some had been gentrified with fake gas lamps and wrought iron. But the front end of the Chevy had disappeared, along with the Blues place underneath. Too bad. A car dangling twenty feet above the sidewalk was way cooler than the Thai restaurant that replaced it.

  She parked and stopped into Satchell’s, a hetero bar with polished oak, soft lights, and a dartboard in the back. She slid into a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of wine. The bartender, a beefy blond with a roving eye and a thick neck told her the bookstore had moved up to Foster and Clark years ago. Feeling suddenly old, she drained her glass.

  She’d met Rabbi Altman at the synagogue at three. Although she’d been raised Catholic and went to parish school, she didn’t have much of a relationship with Christ.

  In fact, she’d always thought Catholics had the corner on rules until she learned that observant Jews had over six hundred of their own. Today she and the rabbi had talked about giving up family traditions like Christmas and Easter. Georgia thought back to her Christmases as a child. Her parents would take her to Church, give her a few presents, and booze it up for the rest of the day. What was there to miss?

  She looked up at the clock. Six-thirty. Enough time for another drink. She drummed her fingers on the bar, making sure each tapped the surface an equal number of times. Had to keep things even.

  She thought she remembered a gay bar that used to be on Diversey. The Bullet Lounge. When she asked the bartender if it was still around, he tipped his head to the side.

  “You too?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  He gave her the once-over, then sighed. “It’s a few blocks west.”

  Georgia gathered her bag, dropped a twenty on the bar, and headed over.

  ***

  It was still early, but The Bullet was in full swing. It wasn’t a big place, and at least a dozen couples, all of them women, were eating and drinking at tables and booths. A few single women sat at the bar. Georgia made her way to the far end, slipped between two empty stools, and ordered a glass of wine. The lights were low, and a jukebox blared out a Patsy Cline number.

  She’d only had a few sips when someone climbed onto a stool beside her. Georgia snuck a glance. A slim attractive woman with curly black hair, she looked tall and vaguely exotic—a young version of Cher. The woman ordered a Goose Island longneck, and when it came, took a long pull. Then she set it down and turned to Georgia.

  “You’re new here.”

  Georgia nodded.

  “I’m Clark. Clark Addison. Where you from?”

  “Up north.”

  Clark waited. When Georgia didn’t say anything more, she said, “Well, that clears things up.”

  Georgia turned to her. “I’m not here—for pleasure.”

  Clark looked her over. “Pleasure’s overrated.”

  Georgia felt an uneasy twinge. “Uh… you don’t understand. I’m—I’m a cop.”

  Clark looked puzzled for a moment. Then a smile came over her. “Everyone’s gotta start someplace.”

  Georgia picked up her wine. “I’m on a job.”

  Clark’s eyebrows went up, and she took another pull off her beer. “I see.” She looked over. “Too bad.”

  Georgia flashed her a smile. “But thanks.”

  Clark grunted. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Why are you here?”

  Georgia pulled out a picture of Julie Romano. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Clark studied the picture. “Can’t say that I do.” She called to the bartender. “Hannah, come on over a sec.”

  Hannah, a large burly woman with short red hair lumbered over. “You know this woman?”

  Georgia passed her the picture.

  Hannah grunted. “Doesn’t look familiar.”

  Clark put her arm around Georgia. “This here is—what did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t. I’m Georgia Davis.”

  Clark grinned. “Sweet Georgia here is an officer of the law. She’s on a case. Needs to find this person.”

  Hannah looked Georgia up and down. Georgia realized she’d never been eyeballed quite like this before—at least by women. Then Hannah pointed behind her. “Check with Donna over in that booth. She knows everybody.”

  Georgia and Clark went over to a Hispanic woman eating a burger and fries. Another woman sat across from her working on a chopped salad. After Clark introduced them, Donna looked at the picture, shook her head, and shared the snapshot with her companion. Georgia saw a flicker of recognition on the companion’s face.

  “Do you know her?”

  The companion, whose cropped grey hair reminded Georgia of the sisters at St. Michael’s, looked up. “Sorry. Never saw her before.”

  “Really? I thought—”

  “I don’t know her,” the woman repeated.

  Donna reached across and patted her hand. “That’s okay, honey.”

  “What s your name?” Georgia asked.

  “Why?”

  “In case I need to talk to you again.”

  “Brenda Hartman,” the woman said.

  Georgia wrote it down. “You’re sure you don’t recognize this woman?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Can I have your number?”

  “Just call me.” Donna smiled at Brenda and recited a number. Georgia wrote it down. She dug out a card and asked them to call her if their memories cleared up.

  She was about to leave when Clark tapped her on the shoulder. Georgia spun around. “Can I have one of those?”

  Georgia eyed her suspiciously.

  Clark threw up her palms. “A card.”

  Georgia considered it. She handed one over.

  Chapter Eleven

  Afterward services that evening Matt grabbed some coffee in the synagogue kitchen, where six or seven people had gathered. Next to Rabbi Altman was a woman Matt didn’t know. Slender, with silky dark hair, she was dressed in a brown paisley skirt and ribbed turtleneck that emphasized every curve. With luminous eyes, a thin nose, and a determined chin, she wasn’t the kind of woman you could look away from for long. She smiled at him between sips of coffee. Matt smiled back.

  “So what do you think of this week’s Torah portion?” Rabbi Altman stirred his coffee with a stick.

  “This parshah’s important because it’s the first time anyone ever designated a piece of land as holy,” one man said, biting into a bagel. “It’s the first time we see that God is in charge of staking out new territory, not man.”

  Several others nodded.

  Encouraged, the man went on. “Personally, I think Jacob’s dream plants the flag for the family of Israel. Kind of like the astronauts staking out the moon with an American flag. Symbolically, of course.”

  “Speaking of families,” another man said, “I think the most interesting part comes later. In the part we haven’t read.”

  Rabbi Altman tilted his head. “What’s that, Howard?”

  “The part where Laban cons Jacob into working for him for seven years, thinking he’s ‘gonna marry Rachel. But then Laban springs Leah on him instead, and Jacob has to work seven more years.”

  “Why is that interesting?”

  “Well, remember last week when we read how Jacob stole Esau’s birthright and tricked his father into giving him Esau’s blessing? With the fur on his arms?”

  Altman nodded.

  “I think this week is payback time. God wants us to know you can’t get away with tricks like that. Jacob has to pay for his sins. At the most vulnerable time in his life, when he truly falls in love.”

  Altman scratched his beard. “Interesting.”

  Howard folded his arms, as if unsure whether to be flattered or insulted.

 
“But I disagree with you,” Altman went on. “Jacob didn’t set out to impersonate Esau. His mother Rebecca put him up to it. Jacob was just doing what his mother wanted.”

  “The good son,” the woman next to Matt said.

  Altman nodded. “I think it was just a case of inexperience. Jacob was naive. He should have been more careful before he made a deal with a man he just met.”

  “But he was in love,” the woman said. “People do all sorts of things when they fall in love.”

  “Jacob paid a stiff price for it.”

  “He did,” the woman nodded. “But in the end, he got her. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  Rabbi Altman smiled. “Of course it does. Laban deceived Jacob. Unfairly. Which, in part, is why Jacob eventually triumphed. But there are some who claim it’s nonsense to think that Jacob didn’t realize it was Leah, not Rachel, in bed with him that first night. Let’s face it. It’s hard to mistake one woman for another, you know what I mean?”

  A few people tittered. The woman nudged Matt. “If my husband didn’t know who he was in bed with,” she whispered, “he ‘d have a lot of explaining to do.”

  “This scholar goes on to say that Leah was Jacob’s primary wife. She bore him more sons than Rachel, and she—not Rachel—is buried with him in the Cave of Machpelah.”

  “I always thought it was bashert that they fell in love. You know, fate.”

  Altman smiled. “Well, another scholar believes Rachel was Jacob’s intended mate for this world, but Leah was his intended mate for a higher, more spiritual world… the world Jacob ultimately embraced. So, you see this is a very complicated and involved piece of Torah.”

  As the group broke up, Matt and the woman walked toward the front door.

  “I always learn the most interesting things at synagogue,” she said.

  “You have strong opinions.”

  “Why do I sense there’s something missing from that sentence?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For a woman.”

  Matt laughed. “Not me. My mother taught me better than that.”

  “And you believed her?”

  “The good son.”